


A Hopeless Dawn

by ForestWren



Series: Feanorian Week 2020 [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Back to Middle-Earth Month, FeanorianWeek, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Poor Maedhros, Post-Nirnaeth Arnoediad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:28:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23290954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForestWren/pseuds/ForestWren
Summary: The Nirnaeth Arnoediad has left Beleriand devastated. The High King is dead, and the Noldor are scattered and broken before the hosts of Morgoth.Maedhros is not coping with this well.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë
Series: Feanorian Week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677022
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24
Collections: Back to Middle-earth Month 2020: Endings and Beginnings, Feanorian Week 2020





	A Hopeless Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting here! Feedback would be greatly appreciated :)
> 
> Back to Middle-Earth Month 2020 prompt: "A Hopeless Dawn" by Frank Bramley
> 
> Feanorian Week Day One: Maedhros

Maedhros stood staring out of the window. The night sky was clear and speckled with the stars of Varda. A brisk, cool breeze blew from the west, playing with his hair as it passed. Somewhere in the distance, a nightingale was singing loud and clear. It was as beautiful a night as any on these shores.

He saw none of it.

He had not slept that night. He had not slept any night since the battle. Maglor was worried for him, he knew, but that did not change anything. Sleep meant letting your guard down. Sleep meant admitting that the day was done and preparing for the next. Sleep meant dreams. If he did not sleep, perhaps he could pretend this was all a dream.  
If he fell asleep now, he would have more than just the old nightmares to torment him.

No. He would not think of that. He would not think of the body, so mutilated he — who knew him best, who had memorized every line and curve of his face, who should have been there to protect him — had barely been able to recognize it. He would not think of how it had been his followers’ treachery that had caused the battle to fail. He would not think of how he had tried so hard to reach him, how he had been too late to do anything but weep, how he had been on the other side of the battle when he should have been there, protecting him, dying in his place. He would not think of how Fingon was by far the better person and deserved a life of happiness and contentment and not to have been bound by Maedhros’ doom and killed by Maedhros’ mistakes. He would not think about the fact that he should have been the one to die.

The wood of the windowsill was firm and rough against his hand. The breeze was cool and clean, for the first time in a long while. The grass rustled gently in the wind. These things were safe to think about. Nothing else.

Maybe if he did not think about it, it would stop hurting.

Suddenly the silence of the night changed. The door behind him creaked open. He spun around with a shout, his hand on the hilt of his sword. It took him a moment to recognize that Maglor stood leaning against the doorframe, leg and forehead bandaged, face pale and eyes red. Maedhros could not tell if it was from tears or lack of sleep. Perhaps both. Maedhros slowly lowered his hand and leaned back against the wall.

“What do you want?” It came out sharper than Maedhros intended it to, but he did not take it back.

“You need to sleep.” 

Maedhros simply glared at him. Maglor sighed.

“May I come in?” he asked.

“If you must.”

Maglor walked slowly into the room. Maedhros could see his brother was limping, though Maglor tried to hide it. Maedhros grimaced.

“Sit.” He gestured to the room’s single chair. Maglor lowered himself into it with relief. There was a moment of silence as both brothers looked at each other, each waiting for  
the other to make the first move.

Eventually, Maglor spoke. “It isn’t healthy to go this long without sleep. You know this.”

Maedhros did know it. That fact had made itself abundantly clear in the months after Angband. At this moment, he did not care. 

Evidently Maglor could see this on his face. His brother sighed again and passed his hand over his eyes. 

“Please. You are only going to hurt yourself if you continue like this.”

Maedhros simply continued to glare.

Maglor’s face took on a desperate look for a moment before he quickly schooled his expression. Maedhros saw it anyway. He felt a stab of guilt for causing his brother pain. It was quickly erased by Maglor’s next words.

“This isn’t what he would have wanted. He would never have wanted you to fade because of him.”

Rage clouded his vision. 

“How _dare_ you? How _dare_ you use him like that!” he shouted. “Don’t you dare to suggest you knew him better than me! How could you _possibly_ know what he would have wanted? You can never have known him! He was brave, valiant, kind, and loving. He was everything you can never be! Don’t you dare use him to manipulate me!”

Maglor froze and his face solidified into a stony mask. Maedhros glared at him, his chest heaving with uneven breaths.

“Get out of my room.” The words were soft and dangerously fierce.

“No.”

Maedhros gave a wordless shout of rage. He lunged forward, seized his brother by the shoulders, and flung him out of the chair.

Maglor flew several yards before he hit the ground. 

Maedhros froze. 

What had he done?

It took Maglor longer than it should have to pull himself shakily to his feet. He leaned heavily against the wall and looked at Maedhros. The pain on his face did not come only  
from the rough landing.

“You can’t go on like this, Nelyo. Stop doing this to yourself. Let us in.” Maglor’s voice was shaking with suppressed emotion. “Please, let us in.”

Maedhros broke.

He fell to his knees, tears that he could no longer hold back streaming down his face. He was a failure. A killer. A murderer. A kinslayer. So many deaths. So much pain, so much blood. It was all his fault. He had killed Fingon. He could not even keep from hurting his own brother. He was a menace. He should leave, he should run away and never come back, he should make sure nobody else could ever be hurt by his sword. But he was a coward. He was too afraid to do the right thing.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispered brokenly in a neverending litany. He curled up on himself and buried his face in his arms.

“Oh Nelyo,” Maglor said softly, his voice breaking with the words. 

Maedhros heard limping footsteps grow nearer as his brother approached. He felt Maglor’s hand grip his shoulder. He did not look up. He was a monster. He did not deserve comfort.

Coward that he was, he could not help wanting it. 

He reached up and clutched Maglor’s other hand, clinging to it like it was the only thing keeping him from being swept into the Void. Maglor responded by pulling him into a fierce embrace. Both brothers shook with long-suppressed pain and heartache.  
Maedhros buried his face in Maglor’s lap and sobbed himself to sleep.

When he woke, birds were still singing in the trees outside. His head was still resting on Maglor. The first pale light of dawn shone down through the window. He looked up and saw his brother, leaning back against the wall with his head slumped to the side. He was fast asleep, looking pale and exhausted and so much younger than he did in waking. How long had he been staying here, sitting in a cold and uncomfortable and irritating position for the sole reason of allowing his brother rest?

Maedhros did not deserve such comfort.

Was he so powerless that he could not manage to protect those he loved best? Was all the might and skill in arms that he had worked so hard to gain after Thangorodrim worth so little? Why must he survive all that should have killed him, while everything else fell to pieces around him? The light of dawn had come, but no hope had joined it. Morgoth had won. Fingon, High King of the Noldor, was gone. So many had died, and those that were left were shattered and broken, scattered in the wind.  
With only one hand, Maedhros did not think he could pick up the pieces.

_“Utulie’n aure!” Fingon had cried, his voice full of hope and joy. “The day has come!”_

Maedhros had not heard it. He had been far, far away, miles from the person he should have been closest to of all. He had heard it from one of the soldiers. She had sobbed as she recounted it.

The slowly-growing light illuminated the desk across the room, covered in papers he had to deal with. On the top, he knew, lay the last letter Fingon ever sent to him. It was written just before the battle. It had been hopeful and cheery, full of thoughts and plans for the future they would create after they won. 

_“Utulie’n aure!” Fingon had cried._

Fingon could not have been more wrong.


End file.
